The Scarlet Letter
by SherlockWhovian
Summary: Sherlock and John investigate a case about a mysterious mass murderer known as The Scarlet Letter. One crime scene catches Sherlock's attention, beckoning him into playing the psychopath's game. Will Sherlock win or will he end up as one of the victims?
1. The Hidden Note

"Bored," Sherlock Holmes said with a monotone voice. He is lying on the sofa with his hands pressed together, resting under his chin.

On the opposite side of the room, John Watson sat in his usual chair drinking a cup of tea. He looked at Sherlock and shook his head, laughing under his breath. "We just finished a case less than twenty minutes ago, and you're already bored?"

"Yes, John. Unlike some people, my brain needs to be doing something at all times. My mind stimulates brain waves more than a hundred times per second. It's something that you wouldn't understand," Sherlock retorted, sounding a little bit too harsh.

"Well I'm sorry that not everyone can be like the amazing Sherlock Holmes." John got up from his chair and walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed. "Check the blog again to see if there are any more cases."

"I just checked it ten minutes ago, Sherlock," John yelled out from the kitchen.

"Well then check it again."

"Fine," John said, sounding irritated, "if it will get you to shut up." He walked out of the kitchen and over to the desk and opened his laptop. He clicked open his blog. _Zero New Messages. _"Nope. Nothing."

Sherlock groaned. "How can you people stand doing nothing?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock mobile beeped. Sherlock immediately took it out of his pocket and sat up.

"It's a message from Lestrade," Sherlock said, smirking.

**I got another case for you.**

**Meet me at the abandoned building on Sussex Place right next to the London School of Business.**

**GL**

"Finally, another case!" Sherlock quickly got up and threw on his long coat and scarf. "Are you coming John?"

John quickly followed Sherlock out the door of their flat. Sherlock waved down a cab, and they started heading off to the crime scene.

"Did Lestrade say what kind of case it was?" John asked, breaking the silence in the cab.

"No, but I hope it is a nice, good murder."

After about seven minutes of driving, the cab pulled up to the sidewalk about 10 meters from the abandoned building Lestrade asked them to come to. John quickly paid the cabby and started walking up towards the crime scene with Sherlock.

There were police cars and yellow crime scene tape blocking off most of the road. Once they got up to the building, Sargent Donovan was the first to notice them.

She snarled at Sherlock and said, "What are you doing here, freak?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but John interrupted Sherlock before he could make a rude comment back to Donovan. "Lestrade asked us to come."

"Fine," Donovan said as she lifted up the crime scene tape for Sherlock and John.

They both ducked under the tape and walked across the pavement. They passed many officers, forensics, and photographers as they walked through the door and up the rundown staircase. They came to an empty, torn up room where they found Lestrade and the dead body.

Lestrade turned around when he heard footsteps enter the room. "Thank you for coming," He said a little grim.

"It's not like I had anything better to do," Sherlock exclaimed, now looking down at the body of a young man. "Give me details."

"A young woman that attends the London School of Business called in an hour ago explaining that she heard screams coming from this building when she was walking by. We came to investigate and found the dead body," Lestrade explained.

John looked down at the body and saw something imprinted on the young man's back. "What's the deal with big "S" imprinted on the man's right shoulder blade?"

"This is the third body we found this week with that. We think there is a mass murderer on the loose and that is his or her insignia," Lestrade said with a hate filled voice.

"Why did you ask me to come? It must be something important for you to look for help," Sherlock already knew the answer but asked anyway.

"You are our only hope in finding this sick bastard."

There was a moment of silence between the three men.

"So are you taking the case or not?" Lestrade asked, hoping Sherlock says yes.

"Take the case? I wouldn't miss this opportunity for the world!"

Sherlock immediately went to work on examining the body. He knelt down right next to the corpse. _Tall, probably about 5'10''. About 24 years old. A college student, guessing by his textbooks that are scattered on the other side of the room. Not wearing a shirt but was obviously wearing a suit because of the dark grey slacks and wing-toed dress shoes. So he must go to a law or business school; probably London School of Business. Guessing by the cuts and burns all over his body he was tortured. Stabbed in the chest 5 times. By how deep the wounds are, he probably got stabbed with at least a 4 inch knife. There is also a huge cut on his neck right above his Adam's apple. From the smell of burning flesh in the air and the ashes on the ground, I'm guessing that the "S" was branded on his back with a hot, iron branding rod._

Sherlock stood up and looked at Lestrade and John, ready to show off what he deduced. "He is a 24 year old college student from the London School of Business. He was probably walking past this building when he left to go home. Someone grabbed him and took him into this building. I didn't see any signs that indicated that he struggled, so he was probably drugged and then brought in here. He was tortured and then stabbed in the chest 5 times, but that didn't kill him right away, so the murderer sliced open his neck. And the insignia was put there by using a branding tool that farmers use on cattle. The murder was either done by a weak man or a woman, since five stabs in the chest with a four inch knife usually kills a person quickly. So the person must not have had enough muscle strength to force the knife into the body. It was probably a woman because young men always fall for older woman."

"You seriously think I girl did all of this?" John asked, confused.

"Well she probably had help, especially when it came to dragging the five-foot-ten young man in here," Sherlock explained as he started to walk around the room.

He found a chair with ropes right next to it. They were both stained with blood. Not so far away from the chair was the man's grey suit jacket and white button up shirt. No knife was found.

"Did you check for fingerprints?" John asked Lestrade, watching Sherlock.

"Of course we checked. This crime scene is spotless. Whoever did this, definitely knows what they are doing."

Sherlock kept examining the dim room. There was something strange about it, but he couldn't figure out what. He looked at the ripped up wall paper. It had a dull pattern of brown and green diagonal stripes. Then he noticed something.

Sherlock walked up to the wall. Some of the stripes where slightly off from the others. He grabbed a corner of the wall paper and ripped it off. There was something carved into the bare, wood wall. He couldn't read it.

Sherlock turned to John. "Do you have your pocket knife with you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John answered, sticking his hand into his left pocket. He handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled a glove off his left hand. He opened the knife and before John could say anything, Sherlock sliced open his palm.

"Sherlock! Why the hell did you do that?" John ran up to Sherlock and quickly took the now blood covered knife out of his hands.

"You will see." Sherlock took his bloody hand and wiped it over the carvings in the wall. The words started to become more readable as Sherlock went over it for the second and third time with his hand.

"Oh my God. It-it says something." John looked closer at the wall.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, walking up to what Sherlock and John were looking at.

John and Sherlock gaped at what they read. Sherlock on the other hand didn't look surprised at all with what it said.

**Come Get Me Sherlock.**

**Love,**

**The Scarlet Letter**


	2. Clues

Sherlock stood, unshaken, staring at the blood smeared wall. _Come get me Sherlock. _He read it over and over in his mind. He was quite impressed by the well thought out plan that was put into creating a hidden note for him to find. He loved it when they were smart.

"Finally a challenge!" Sherlock laughed out loud, startling John and Lestrade. He clapped his hands together, ignoring the sting that the cut on his left palm made when it came into contact with the other hand. "I knew there was something different about this one. A link of deaths and a hidden note. Oh God its Christmas!"

Sherlock turned around to face John and Lestrade, who at the moment were still waiting for their brains to catch up with what just happened.

"Look at you two, so vacant and dull. Don't you get it? Finally, someone with comparable intelligence is offering me a new and exciting challenge." Sherlock was ecstatic, like he always got when there was a good, old murder that gave him something different to figure out.

"Sherlock, you have to understand that this is a murderer. The Scarlet Letter, if we should call her that, has already killed three innocent people and who knows how many others that we haven't found yet. This is not a game to be playing," Lestrade said sternly. He was being completely serious. The last time Sherlock played a game with one of these psychopaths, a couple of people got blown up.

"I would have to agree with Lestrade on this one, Sherlock," John said while cleaning off his pocket knife of Sherlock's blood with a handkerchief that he pulled out of the pocket of his coat.

"Well, the yard must obviously want my help, or why else would you have called to me to come to this crime scene. You need me to find this person, and the only way for me to do that is if I go along with whatever this criminal's game is." Sherlock continued walking along the walls, examining them to make sure there was nothing else that was hidden behind the wallpaper.

Lestrade sighed. He knew he was going to regret this, but he finally caved in. "Fine… what do you suppose we do?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and smirked. "We should start with visiting the other crime scenes, just in case there are other surprises hidden for me there."

Before anyone could object, Sherlock was already out the door. Lestrade and John followed quickly, trying to keep Sherlock in their sight. They came out onto the street, passing all the other people working on the crime scene.

Lestrade was the last to catch up to Sherlock, right behind John. He panted slightly from having to basically run after him. "Cab or police car?" Lestrade said, still trying to catch his breath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Cab, obviously." Sherlock quickly waved down a cab. All three of them got in.

"Where to?" The cabby said with a gruff voice. _Obviously from years of smoking._ Sherlock quickly deduced in his mind.

Lestrade spoke up. "451 Balcombe Street."

The cabby nodded and started to drive off towards their destination. The whole ride was in complete silence, besides for the repetitive tapping of Sherlock's fingers on his left knee. It was not until about ten minutes later that they arrived in front of a nice looking apartment building. John paid the cabby and joined the other two, who were already walking towards the building.

They came into the entrance of the building and walked across the shiny tile flooring to the stairs that they would walk up until they reached the crime scene. As soon as they came to the door that Lestrade said was the flat that they found their first dead body in, Sherlock opened the door and walked in.

He examined the room carefully. The first thing he noticed was unmistakable, huge blood stain on the soft carpet and the blood that was also splattered on part of the wall. This was undoubtedly the blood of the victim.

Lestrade and John joined Sherlock in the small flat. "The victim was sixteen year old Jana Williams. We talked with the neighbors, and they said that this flat has been vacant for several months. So this was obviously not where Jana lived," Lestrade said, sternly. He hated when the victims where children.

"Did anyone see Jana and the murderer walk into the flat?" John asked Lestrade, while watching Sherlock examine the blood stains.

Lestrade shook his head. "No one saw anything. This happened when everyone was asleep. Plus the very sound proof walls kept anyone from hearing anything, too. The perfect location to kill someone."

Sherlock continued to examine the room. There was a table that had a half empty bottle of vodka and two broken glasses. Some of the shards of glass were covered in blood, obviously used to torture the victim with. He then noticed a broken chair and several cut zip ties.

Sherlock grabbed the vodka bottle with a gloved hand. There was something peculiar about it. He opened it and took a whiff of it. It certainly smelled like vodka, but it was a cheaper brand. He closed the bottle and continued to look at it, turning it in his hands. The label on the front bottle was glued to it. That wasn't necessarily unusual, but the label was a millimeter thicker than the one on the back.

Sherlock ripped off the label of the vodka bottle.

"Sherlock! You realize that is evidence," Lestrade retorted aloud.

Sherlock decided to ignore the comment. He placed the bottle back onto the table and looked at the small label he held in his hand. He examined the edges of it. The thickness of it was indeed unusual. Sherlock took off his gloves and started trying to pull the edges of the label apart. Like cardstock paper, it immediately pulled apart, giving him what were now two labels.

They looked exactly the same. Something caught his eye about the one that was covering the second one. On the back of it was a message written in red ink.

It read:

**Next drink is on me, Sherlock.**

**Love,**

**The Scarlet Letter**

Sherlock smirked to himself but quickly hid it so no one could see. There was nothing special about the message, just something to catch Sherlock's attention.

"Did you find something?" John asked. He walked up to Sherlock to see what was in his hand.

"Yes, but nothing important," Sherlock replied, sighing. He stuck the label in his coat pocket and started walking out the door of the flat. This was a sign that Sherlock was getting bored with this crime scene. "Next."

All three of them left the building and caught another cab to go to the scene of the second killing.

"200 Kennick Place," Lestrade told the cabby.

The cab ride was twenty minutes long until they got to their next destination. It was a very small house that almost looked like a shed. It was rundown and from what they could tell, it has been deserted for many years.

They paid and thanked the cabby, who was happy to quickly leave, since they were in a pretty sketchy part of London.

Lestrade lead the way this time up to the little house. There were seven teenagers sitting on the front patio, smoking who knows what. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade walk up to the group, who are obviously in their way of getting to the crime scene inside.

One of the girls in the group looked up and smirked in Sherlock's direction, looking him over. She couldn't be more than fifteen years old. "Hey sexy. You know, my bedroom is right down the street. You should come over later." She winked at him.

Sherlock gaped at the girl, not knowing how to reply. Lestrade must have noticed because he quickly spoke up.

"Alright that's enough," Lestrade spoke loudly as he pulled out his badge. "I'm with the police and this is a crime scene. So, sod off!"

The group quickly got up and started running, except for the one girl. She slowly got on her feet and moved pass Sherlock, their shoulders brushed past each other. The girl turned and smirked back at Sherlock before catching up with her friends.

Sherlock stood there, watching the girl run off into the distance with the rest of the group. The confusion spread through his mind, but was stopped when someone started speaking to him.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked, knowing Sherlock long enough to know when something unusual was bothering him.

Sherlock was silent for a second. He nodded and quickly turned towards the house. He walked up to the door and opened it, leaving Lestrade and John on the front lawn.

"Did you see Sherlock's reaction to the girl?" John asked Lestrade, sounding a little bit too concerned for his liking.

"Yeah, that was a little strange… but I'm sure it was nothing." Lestrade shrugged, leaving it at that.

The two walked into the open door to find Sherlock already at work deducting everything around him.

This crime scene was rather interesting. There where scorch marks all over the walls and the smell of gasoline was absolutely unbearable. Ashes covered the hardwood floor, along with several puddles of blood and what looked to be black ink.

Sherlock walked over to where the body obviously used to be. He knelt down to get a better look.

"The victim was a fifty-seven year old man named Bernard Johnson. He was very badly burned, to the point that most of his flesh was gone… except for his right hand, which had the Scarlet Letter's little, branded insignia on it," Lestrade explained, blinking slowly trying to get the picture out of his mind.

Sherlock stood up looking for any clues that there might be for him. What was really throwing him off about the scene was the black ink. _Why? Why black ink?_ Sherlock thought to himself.

He examined all the places where the splotches of ink were. Nothing really caught his eye, until he saw a line of ink running across the floor to a corner of the room. Sherlock followed it, until it ended up at a dead end. He looked everywhere, finding nothing.

Sherlock let out a frustrated grunt as he kicked the wall. There was an echo that sounded as he kicked it the first time. He kicked it again, to hear the same hollow sound. This made Sherlock smirk. He decided to kick it again, but a little bit harder this time.

"Please Sherlock, don't take your frustration out on the wall," Lestrade yelled out, sounding irritated.

"Shut up Lestrade." Sherlock was being arrogant again. Instead of kicking the wall this time, he grabbed the only hard object in the room, which was a fire extinguisher, and hit the wall as hard as he could. This created a small hole in the wall. Sherlock looked through but couldn't see anything. He grabbed ahold of the fire extinguisher again and started hitting the wall repeatedly.

"Okay that's enough, Sherlock!" Lestrade came up to Sherlock and snatched the object out of his hands before he hit the wall again.

"Give it back," Sherlock said through gritted teeth while trying to grab the fire extinguisher out of Lestrade's hands. This made him look like a little five year old trying to get a toy back from his older brother.

"No, you're creating a mess of the wall."

"There is something behind it, you idiot!" Sherlock made another attempt of grabbing the object once again out of Lestrade's hands, but failed. "Fine… I will use my hands then."

Sherlock went back to the wall and started ripping chunks out of the plaster and making the hole a lot bigger. After a while, Sherlock was able to see the contents inside. It was a blue scarf that was covered in blood. There was a note attached to it.

It read:

**Jana would have wanted you to have this. **

**Love,**

**The Scarlet Letter**

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at the object in Sherlock's hands.

"Look for yourself…" Sherlock handed the scarf to John.

After John read the note, he closed his eyes and quickly handed it to Lestrade. John couldn't stand to look at it anymore.

"Oh dear God," Lestrade spoke after he read the note. He dropped the scarf and started pacing the floor. This whole case was starting to make him feel queasy.

There was silence among the three for a while. Sherlock eventually broke the silence with an exaggerated sigh. "Well coming to these crime scenes was a complete waste of time." He walked across the room and through the front door.

Lestrade and John followed Sherlock out onto the deserted street. There were no signs of cabs anywhere, which meant they would have to walk all the way to the main road to get a ride. This didn't sit well with Lestrade, since he knew how bad this part of town was. Luckily, he and John were both carrying their guns with them.

They walked in silence. The only sound heard was from the shuffling of their feet against the pavement, and the occasional distant sound of yelling and car horns.

John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He noticed that there was something off about Sherlock ever since that incident with the teenage girl. He was more silent than usual. He didn't even bother to deduce the people who walked past them, like he normally does. John just pushed the thought out of his mind as they approached the main road.

"Well, I'm going to head back to the crime scene, are you two coming?" Lestrade asked as he tried to wave down a cab.

"There is no use in us going back there. Text me when something actually important shows up," Sherlock replied quickly. Before Lestrade could say anything back, Sherlock waved down a cab and got in.

"Sorry," John said to Lestrade before he climbed into the cab after Sherlock.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the old cabby before they drove off.

There was an awkward silence between Sherlock and John, the kind where one glances at the other as the other looks away and so on.

After that continued on for another three minutes, Sherlock finally gave in, sighed, and said in an irritated tone, "What's wrong now, John?"

"Oh nothing out of the ordinary. You being your sociopathic self and not thinking about others, the usual."

"And?" Sherlock was obviously not catching on to what John was saying.

John sighed heavily and shook his head, a little laugh under his breath. "Do you even care that people are being murdered, probably even right this minute, by this psychopath? You know what, don't even reply to that because I already know the answer. It's like all you care about is the game and keeping yourself from getting bored. Innocent people are dying, Sherlock. So, why don't you get off your bloody high horse and actually do something to stop this."

"Caring is not an advantage, John. Everyone dies eventually."

John stared at Sherlock. He opened his mouth to say something but quickly closed it, knowing that trying to change Sherlock would be like trying to move a mountain with your bare hands.

They arrived in front of their flat at 5:32 p.m. The sun was setting, making the sky turn into pinkish-blue color. Sherlock and John walk into their flat and quickly got up to their sitting room.

John sat down in his usual chair; sighing at the comfort it brings his tired body. This day has been too long for his liking. He watches Sherlock as he sits down on the sofa, clasping his hands together. He was obviously in deep thought. John decided to ignore him, since he was still ticked about what Sherlock said in the cab.

As Sherlock sat, he couldn't help but think through all the crime scenes in his head. He was irritated that the Scarlet Letter didn't leave any clues that were of any importance. _She is boring just like the rest of them. _Sherlock thought.

Sherlock reached for the phone in his pocket, but felt something he was not expecting. Right next to his mobile was something that felt like cardstock paper. From the feel of it, he would say it was as small as a business card. He took it out of his pant pocket.

**542 Rodmarton Street.**

**I'll be waiting. (;**

**Love,**

**The Scarlet Letter**


	3. Meeting the Devil

Sherlock stared at the small card in his hand. The smirk slowly crept across his face, the anticipation spreading through his whole body. He looked at John, who was sitting in his chair reading the paper. The thought of bringing John with him passed through his mind, but he quickly shoved it away. This meeting was meant for him and him only.

Sherlock quickly stood up, grabbing his coat and scarf in the process. He walked to the door of the room to leave, but was stopped by John's voice.

"Where are going now, Sherlock?" John asked, watching Sherlock from his chair.

"Out." Sherlock left it at that. He quickly left the flat, not wanting John to question him any further.

Sherlock walked out into the cool, winter air that threatened to seep through his coat. He waved down a cab and got in.

"Where to?" The cabby asked.

"542 Rodmarton Street."

Ten minutes later, the cab pulls up to a building.

Sherlock paid the cabby and got out of the cab. He stood and looked at the building for a second. It was a very ordinary building, one that looks like all the others on the street. All the lights were off inside.

As he started to walk up towards the front door, he heard a sound coming from an alley right next to the building.

Sherlock's curiosity took over him as he walked slowly towards the alley. He stood at the opening and looked through the darkness. He couldn't quite see anything but continued to hear the sound.

Right before he continued to walk into the alleyway, Sherlock felt a sudden deep pain in his neck. His hand slowly moved to the source of the pain and pulled out something that was jabbed into his neck. It was a syringe needle.

Sherlock could feel whatever was in that needle course through his veins. He turned around on shaky legs to find that no one was there. He dropped the needle and tried to make his way back to the street, but the drug took over his body, making him fall to the ground. As he lay there on the wet, cold ground, he saw two pairs of feet walking towards him. Then everything went black.

XxX

There were faint voices filling Sherlock's ears. His body felt heavy and limp against the freezing concrete floor. His coat and scarf were missing, and all that protected him from the cold was his thin shirt. The pain in his head and neck were unbearable. He willed his eyes to open, but they wouldn't obey. His breathing was normal, but when he tried to speak all that came out was slurs that didn't even sound like words at all.

Sherlock suddenly heard a chuckle and footsteps coming towards him. "Shhh, it's okay. No need to say anything," The sweet, calming voice said.

Sherlock felt a warm hand caress his face. Once again he willed his eyes to open. He looked up to see the owner of the hand. It was the girl he met earlier that day. He tried to sit up but noticed that his hands and legs were bound together tightly. Sherlock growled under his breath. He hated not being able to move his limbs.

The girl giggled. "Aw poor thing, let me help you."

Sherlock watched as the girl stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, grab a chair, and walk back to him. She helped Sherlock get up from his lying position and placed him on the seat.

"There you go. Does that feel better?" She smirked at Sherlock, standing directly in front of him.

Sherlock didn't reply. All he did was glare at her. She had long black hair with piercing bluish-grey eyes, pale skin, and sharp features. In some ways, you could say she looked a lot like Sherlock. She was wearing tight, black jeans and a white, button up, collared shirt that fit perfectly over her slim body. In Sherlock's opinion, she did look somewhat beautiful in her own interesting way.

"You don't look too bad yourself, handsome," She said, as if she read Sherlock's mind. The smirk never left her face. "Oh dear me… I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I? I'm The Scarlet Letter, but _you_ can call me Scarlet." She smiled brightly.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "You've got to be joking. You? The Scarlet Letter? Please, you're just a kid."

The smirk on the girl's face faded. Rage filled her eyes as she pulled a knife out of her pocket. "You dare to belittle me with your petty words?" She said through gritted teeth, bringing the blade to his neck, right under his jaw. "You do not know what I am capable of."

Sherlock kept his breath as steady as possible. The sudden transformation that she made from a sweet, innocent girl into a raging psychopath was quite intimidating.

She laughed as she pulled the knife away from Sherlock's neck. "It would be such a pleasure for me to slit that magnificent throat of yours right now, but what fun would that be? All that would mean is that the game between us is over, and I don't want that to happen now do I?"

Scarlet started to walk around Sherlock, staring intensively as if he was her prey. I some ways you could say that was true. She stopped behind Sherlock, examining his back profile. She lifted her left hand towards the back of his neck and slowly dragged a finger down his spine till it stopped at the collar of his purple shirt. This sent a chill through Sherlock's entire body.

"You know… I have been waiting for this moment for a long time. Getting to finally meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes in person has always been my dream. I guess you could say that I am your biggest fan." She giggled as she started to play with Sherlock's dark, curly hair. "The Science of Deduction is fascinating."

"I see you have read my website," Sherlock said, sounding irritated. He so wished he could swat away her hands that danced through his hair.

"Oh yes, it was quite interesting. Please tell me," She said as she moved back in front of Sherlock, letting go of his hair, "what have you deduced about me?"

Sherlock looked her over once again. He stared blankly at her trying to get his mind to deduce something, but all it did was give him another headache. This made Sherlock even more frustrated. _Why can't I read anything off of her?_ He thought.

Scarlet laughed as she stared into his confused eyes. "I am rather disappointed." She slightly pouted her lips. She leaned in closer to Sherlock, placing her hands on his knees. Their faces were an inch apart. "I was hoping that you would be different from the others, but I guess I was wrong. You're boring just like the rest of them."

Sherlock could feel her warm breath against his skin. Her cold, icy eyes glared into his. She smirked as she pushed away from him.

"It's a good thing I like you. If you were truly like the others, I would have already cut you open and explored your insides, slowly taking out each organ one by one," Scarlet said, still smirking at Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored the last part of the comment. "Then why am I here, exactly?"

"Because, Mr. Holmes, I want to break you. I do not mean physically, but mentally. I want you to leave this place a broken man."

"And how, might I add, are you going to do that?" He asked, arrogantly.

"I never reveal my secrets." She winked at Sherlock.

Sherlock hated how God-awful happy she was, but what happened next was so unexpected.

"Peter, it's time," Scarlet yelled out, her voice echoing through the room.

A man walked into the dim room through a door to the right of Sherlock. Peter looked to be about twenty-four years old. He was tall and muscular. Scarlet smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sherlock this is Peter. Peter this is Sherlock, the man I was telling you about."

Peter did a quick nod at Sherlock. He began to speak to Scarlet. "You ready?"

The comment was oddly not directed towards Sherlock. "Ready? What is he talking a-"

Before Sherlock finished his sentence, Peter grabbed Scarlet's wrists very tightly, making her hands turn white. Then he threw her to the ground, causing her head to hit the wall. He walked over to her body and grabbed her by the arms making her stand up. He pushed her against the wall and began to bite and suck on her neck.

Sherlock watched in extreme confusion, not knowing what was happening. _What is going on? Who is Peter? Why did he suddenly attack The Scarlet Letter? Is this some sort of plan? How is this supposed to break me? _There was a traffic jam of questions swirling through his mind, waiting to be answered.

A loud sound broke Sherlock's train of thought. He fixed his eyes on the now beaten girl lying on the floor. Peter held out his hand and helped her up. Scarlet patted Peter's cheek softly. "Your work here is done. You may leave now." Peter nodded at Scarlet and quickly walked away, leaving through the same door he came in through.

Scarlet walked up to Sherlock, who was looking at her with perplexed eyes. Bruises were already starting to form on Scarlet's wrists, arms, neck, and face. She must have noticed he was staring because she quickly slapped him across the face.

"Didn't your parents ever teach you that it's not polite to stare?" She asked.

"Didn't your parents ever teach you that it's not polite to slap people?" Sherlock retorted, trying not to be phased by being slapped by a girl.

Scarlet smirked. "My parents are dead."

The way she smirked when stating that her parents are dead, sent a chill down Sherlock's spine. He knew that she is probably the reason why they are deceased.

"Let me guess… family problems?" Sherlock asked with an arrogant tone.

"Good deduction, Mr. Holmes."

"So who's this Peter fellow? Is he your boyfriend?"

Scarlet laughed. "Jealous?"

"Oh heavens, no. It was just some simple small talk to lighten up the mood. You know, before you start breaking me and such."

"My, aren't you a little impatient. Good things come to those who wait. Well, I guess in your case bad things."

XxX

Back at 221B Baker Street, John was impatiently pacing the floor. It was now 12:34 a.m. and Sherlock still has not returned back to the flat. John was vigorously texting on his mobile trying to get a hold of Sherlock for two hours, and there was still no reply.

_He must have turned off his phone._ John thought, trying to restrain himself from throwing his mobile at the wall. _Damn it John, Sherlock is an adult. Stop worrying like you're his mother, for Christ's sake. Why should you care that he is out very late, anyway? _

But John knew something was wrong, though. He could feel it in his gut that something bad happened to Sherlock. _Maybe Lestrade knows where he is._

John typed Lestrade's number into his mobile; he brought it up to his ear. After two rings Lestrade answered.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

"Hey, it's John."

"Hello John. Why are you calling at this ungodly hour?"

"Is Sherlock with you?"

"No. I haven't seen him since you both left from the crime scene. Why, what's wrong?"

"Damn it. Sherlock just randomly got up and left right when we got back to the flat about seven hours ago and hasn't returned yet."

"Okay but isn't that a normal thing with Sherlock?"

"Well yeah but… I'm just worried that something might have happened to Sherlock, especially because there is a mass murderer playing games with him."

"Oh God. We can try tracking his mobile, just in case he might still have it, but if that doesn't work I can send out a search party."

"Thank you. I will be at the station in five minutes. I just hope it isn't too late." And with that, John hung up his mobile, grabbed his coat and ran out the door.

XxX

Scarlet stood in front of Sherlock, her intense, grey eyes looking him over. "Hmmm." She was in deep thought.

Sherlock really wished he could read minds; it would be so helpful at a time like this. He wanted to be able to prepare himself before Scarlet started whatever plan she had in store for him.

Sherlock's cheek ached from the burning slap he received from Scarlet a few minutes earlier. He was definitely impressed by how strong she is for a fifteen year old girl. His cheek was sure to bruise.

"Can you stop thinking? It is quite annoying," Sherlock spoke, challenging Scarlet by staring into her eyes, even though it was the reason he got slapped in the first place.

Scarlet chuckled. "Oh, so you don't like the thinking type. Is that why you keep John?"

"No. John is an exception."

"I see… you two must be lovers then." She smirked at Sherlock.

"Wrong again. You're obviously not very observant."

"So, if you and John are _not _together, then who holds your heart?"

"I have been informed many times that I do not have one."

"Oh I'm sure that is not true." Scarlet walked up the where Sherlock was tied to a chair. She leaned into him; close enough that they were breathing each other's air. She moves her hands to his purple shirt and slowly starts to unbutton it. After unbuttoning the fifth button, she places her right hand on his bare chest, where his heart is supposed to be. Their skin contact makes Sherlock flinch slightly. "Yep, I can definitely feel something beating."

As Scarlet says those last few words, she starts to lean closer and closer to Sherlock. By the time she stops, the space between their lips is less than a centimeter apart. Scarlet smiles. "And now your heart is racing." She places a soft kiss on his right cheek, where the bruise is, letting it linger a bit before she completely pulls away from him.

Sherlock blinked slowly; a slight tingling feeling still left on his cheek and on his chest. His mind went fuzzy, causing him to not be able to think straight. He wished he could go to his mind palace to search for anything that might give him an explanation on what he was feeling. But, he knew it was a hopeless cause.

As he contemplated on his thoughts and feelings, he did not notice that Scarlet had walked behind him. He snapped out of his haze, when he felt a slight tugging on the ropes around his wrists. Scarlet was cutting the ropes that bound him. After she was done with his wrists, she moved to his feet and cut those ropes as well.

Sherlock watched as she did this. His mind seemed to start working enough for him to wonder. _Why is she untying me? Is this part of her plan? Wait, why would she untie him, if she knows that I can overpower her and escape?_ The questions were making him even more confused, which irritated him.

His arms and legs felt really stiff, so when she was done, he stretched, making the blood flow through his limbs again. It felt amazing to be able to move after what felt like hours. He stood up.

Scarlet picked up the chair and ropes. "I'll be right back." She smiled then left the room through one of the doors.

Sherlock looked at all the doors, contemplating on whether he should try to escape or not. But his curiosity would not let him take even one step towards any of the doors. _Why does she trust me all of a sudden? Does she want me to leave? Does she think that I wouldn't leave? Should I leave? _These questions swirled around in his head. He pushed them aside when Scarlet reentered the room.

"What a good surprise. I thought you would have tried to leave by now," Scarlet said as she walked across the concrete floor to where Sherlock was standing.

"Really? And miss all the fun we are having?" Sherlock was, of course, being sarcastic.

Scarlet smirked. She tilted her head up to look at Sherlock's handsome face. "We are not even to the best part yet."

Sherlock tried to read her face. He couldn't tell anything besides that she had a mischievous look on her beautiful, bruised, pale face.

As Sherlock stared into the dark abyss of her eyes, he did not notice at first what Scarlet was starting to do. He looked away from her eyes as he heard the sound of a zipper being unzipped.

"What the hell…" Sherlock began to say but Scarlet placed a finger against his lips.

"Shhh… no need to speak," she said in a quiet, seductive voice.

Sherlock didn't understand at the time what was happening. He just stood there and watched as Scarlet finished unzipping her black pants and started to unbutton her shirt. As she did this, there was a faint sound of a siren off in the distance that was starting to get louder and louder. The sound was obviously coming from police cars that were approaching the building where Sherlock and Scarlet were located. They both seemed to ignore the sound.

Sherlock finally came to his senses and began to process what was happening, but before he could move, Scarlet grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him to the ground.


	4. Framed

**A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in a very long time. I had finals for school, and then I had a major writers block. Well I hope you like the new chapter! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from BBC Sherlock. All I own is the Scarlet Letter and the story line.**

xXx

Sherlock fell to the ground, landing on top of Scarlet. His body went numb. He did not move and found that he couldn't bring himself to breath. All he could do was look down at Scarlet's pale face, which was about an inch away from his.

The sound of sirens was unbearably loud now. But another sudden high pitch sound began to ring through Sherlock's ears. It came from Scarlet. It was a very startling sound that would cause anyone to cover their ears in pain.

Confusion filled Sherlock's head. _What is going on? Why is Scarlet screaming? Did she get hurt when I fell on her? Why can't I seem to get myself to stand up? Wait… is she crying now?_

Sherlock's left hand was placed right next to Scarlet's head, the other on the bare skin of her ribcage. His body was placed perfectly on top of hers.

A loud sound of fast footsteps and a bang that came from slamming open a door, took Sherlock out of his gaze.

"What the hell…" A voice echoed in the room. Sherlock couldn't tell who the voice belonged to.

Sherlock suddenly felt hands grab the back of his shirt and pull him off of Scarlet. They threw him to the ground, making him fall on his back. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, his back throbbing.

As soon as Sherlock was off of Scarlet, she immediately crawled into a corner of the room, pulled her knees to her chest, and hid her face in her knees. Her loud sobs made her body shake uncontrollably.

Sherlock felt like time had completely stopped and everything was moving in slow motion. The only thing that wasn't slowed was his heart that was pounding out of his chest. He took his eyes off Scarlet and shifted his gaze to the rest of the commotion in the room. He peered from one person to the next, until his eyes met John's. The dreadful, shocked look in his eyes made Sherlock shutter; they bore deeply into him, making him feel exposed.

Sherlock shifted his gaze again, not being able to look at his best friend's death stare, but the eyes he met next were even worse.

Lestrade stood above Sherlock looking down at him with an accusing look in his eyes, as if Sherlock just committed mass murder. This look made Sherlock feel small and weak, which was a first for him.

"What the bloody hell happened here!" Lestrade grabbed the collar of Sherlock's unbuttoned shirt, pulling him up roughly.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. Even he, the great consulting detective, was confused on what just happened in the last couple of minutes. "I… I…"

Lestrade gave him a disgusted look. "You took the bloody offer, didn't you? She is just a kid!" Lestrade tightened his grip on Sherlock's shirt. "You sick bastard." Lestrade threw Sherlock back to the hard concrete ground.

Sherlock's body hit the floor pretty hard, making his head slam against it. He sat up once again and put his face in his hands. He could feel everyone staring at him. Sherlock was normally okay with people looking at him, but that was when he was showing off and everybody was watching in awe. But, right at the moment, he absolutely despised the feeling; he felt pathetic.

He glanced up in Scarlet's direction to see a few people surrounding her, including Lestrade, Anderson, and Donavan. They were asking her questions and checking for serious injuries. Sherlock could only hear some of the questions being thrown at the girl.

"What is your name?" Lestrade asked.

"C-Christina J-Jenson," Scarlet said through slowed sobs.

"Christina, you need to tell us exactly what happened." One of the paramedics asked. Scarlet looked horrified at the statement. "Don't worry, he can't hurt you anymore."

"I-I was walking home on the side of the road, a-and he grabbed me from behind. I tr-tried to scream and pull out of his grasp, but he was too strong and had his hand over my mouth. He took me into this warehouse and pushed me up against the wall. H-he started to kiss me and suck on my neck and told me it was all my fault that he was doing this, trying to convince me that I was the one that wanted it." Tears started to roll down Scarlet's flushed cheeks. "I tried to get away again, but he grabbed onto my wrists and threw me a-against the floor. He got on top of me and started to unbutton my shirt and unzip my pants. He told me to unbutton his top, but I refused and slapped him across the face. He got very angry and threatened to kill me, if I didn't do what he said. I-I was horrified, so I did everything he told me to do. His hands moved all over my body… t-touching me… I kept screaming out but no one heard me. He tried to rape me…"

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He stood up on wobbly legs and started to walk in her direction. "Don't believe a word she says." He sounded a little bit too desperate than what he wanted. "I-I was framed. She is the Scarlet Letter; she is the murderer that killed those three people. You have to believe me!" He clenched his fists as he yelled out to everyone; he looked like a madman.

Scarlet started to scream and cry again as Sherlock walked up to her, cowering even more into the corner. Lestrade and Anderson had to restrain Sherlock from moving any closer. He tried to pull away from them, but he was still too weak from the drug. "I was drugged! She drugged me and brought me here."

"Sherlock! She is just a kid; she can't possibly have carried you into this building," Lestrade yelled.

"Of course she didn't do it by herself, you idiot. She had help from a guy named Peter. Go check! He is behind that door over there!"

"Damn it, Sherlock; this is insane! She can't possibly be a mass murderer. I mean look at her!"

Sherlock looked at Scarlet. She looked so small now compared to when he first met her, face to face. The bruises did help a bit, too._ Oh, she is good._ Sherlock thought, internally smirking.

"Fine… If you won't check then I will." Sherlock ripped for the two men's grasp and walked briskly up to the door Peter left through; Lestrade followed. "And if I'm lucky, there will also be the chair that she tied me to."

Sherlock grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it open, not expecting what he was about to see. The room was an empty closet. There was no sign of anyone being there in at least ten years. The thick dust and the spider webs prove it. There was no way that Peter could have left without leaving at trace. And how could he have left anyway? There was no other door connected to that closet. "This can't be right. I-I saw him go through this door." Sherlock walked into the small space and felt the dust covered walls. He was really desperate now. "This is impossible." Sherlock banged his fist against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you're under arrest for the attempt of rape against Christina Jenson," Lestrade said sternly as he grabbed Sherlock's pale wrists and handcuffed them behind his back.

Sherlock didn't struggle to get away; he gave up on doing that, especially since there was no evidence that he was telling the truth.

As Sherlock walked across the cold concrete floor, with Lestrade and two other policemen walking behind him, he took in everything around him, storing it in his mind palace. He did not want to forget. He was going to figure out how Scarlet was able to make this all happen.

He glanced over to see that Scarlet was being put onto a stretcher and being wheeled out of the building. He shifted his gaze to see Donavan and Anderson staring at him with a slight smirk on their faces. The last thing Sherlock saw before he left the warehouse was John. As their eyes met, John quickly looked away. This made Sherlock feel like he was being stabbed in the stomach; even his own best friend believed the act.

Sherlock stepped out into the freezing London air. The breeze made him shiver, especially since his shirt was still unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest.

Lestrade opened the back of one the many police cars and Sherlock got in.

Back in the warehouse, John didn't move from the spot where he was standing since he went through those God forsaken doors. None of what just happened made sense. _How could someone that is so asexual do something like this; especially when that someone is Sherlock? He never cared about that kind of stuff. Like he said, he is married to his work._

"I told you to stay away from him." The sound of Sargent Donavan's voice made John come out of his train of thought. "I said that one day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. I guess I was right all along." Donavan looked away from John and walked out of the building, not saying another word.

John couldn't help but believe her.


End file.
